I'm working. Feverishly. Really.
Mr. Crochet me is also working. He's working on our kitchen reno. I went upstairs just now and didn't recognize the song that was playing. I liked it. I said so. I asked who was singing. He wouldn't tell me. I insisted.
I didn't know we had a Phish cd in the house. I think Phish suck. Mostly because of a jerk from years past. (And because they resemble the Grateful Dead, and I think the GD are about the most boring band. Ever. Boring and yet responsible for a huge and loyal fan base. It boggles the mind.)
I don't know which would be a worse offense — that he's playing Phish upstairs while I'm in the house, or if I were to crack that cd into pieces tonight while he's asleep and pretend it never existed.
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